


Savages, Savages

by Strigoi17



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pocahontas AU in which Aoba is an English settler in the New World, having stowed away on Koujaku's ship after a brain injury, and falls in love with a savage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savages, Savages

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very, VERY short and slightly half-assed drabble that more than likely won't be continued. It was written for the fact that I needed to get the idea out of my system before continuing my other projects. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

The night is a deep, hibernating cobalt, a hoax of calm arching over the trees and the ocean’s face. An apple of fire beats like a fervent heart on the coast, backlighting the faces of two hundred earnest Englishmen thirsty for retribution.

“Men!” His voice is a dagger of light through the murky shadows; a battle call that riles the soldiers snapping excitedly at his heels. “Do you see what they’ve done? What have I told you of the savages?”

“That they’re dangerous!” Screams one.

“They’re menaces!” Shouts another.

“This is our land!” Koujaku shakes his fist above his troops, his fellow adventurers, voice booming and sharp. “And now they’ve gone after Aoba! He tried to befriend them – and look what has happened! Will you lie down and die like Aoba did?”

“No!” It’s a resounding call among the small army of settlers.

“Kill them!” Koujaku leaps off of his pile of firewood, diving directly into the mob of angry men. “We kill them all and avenge our fallen brother!”

 

He trips over his own feet moreso than the tree branches and pine needles littered along the forest floor. He reaches forward and grabs onto branches, pulling himself through the woods and lunging towards his home. Through the heavy rooftop of pine trees, moonlight struggles to fight through to reach his shoulders and guide his way; he emerges from the thick brush, newly born of speed and needle scratches on his arms. His limbs are too heavy for him, weighing down his progress and his pace; his soul feels trapped in his body, frustrated and restless.

The moon pours milky grey light onto the chestnut of his skin, lighting his way to the fire burning in the distance. It writhes up above the trees, grapples towards the sky and the stars. On the wind’s tail, familiar chants sail to the once loyal warrior, vibrating in his chest like the hide on war drums.

He had to try – he had to do something.

Mink is strong; he is cunning, imposingly large and aided by the wing of the Eagle as he sprints across the plains, quick as the wind driving into his back. He pulsates with power and shaky confidence, strung tight as an arrow in skilled hands.

Their fire comes into his view all at once, an imposing, threatening sight of betrayal. Covered in green grass and dark violence, the cliff face rises above them in an impressive crescent, and crouched on it are two silhouettes: one thin and bound and the other large, almost as large as Mink, towering over Aoba and the tribe cheering beneath him.

“Father!” Dawn breaks, red as a sparrow’s wing. “Father, stop!”

His pleas fall on deaf ears; a deafening call, a trill of anger and his father raises his weapon above his head. It catches scarlet morning the light like newly spilt blood, visible as Mink reaches out and grabs it from his father’s hand. He raises it above his head, reared towards the chief.

“Father!” His voice is broken by pants, layered in fear and desperation. “I beg you to stop!”

“Mink?” He is awestruck by the emptiness of his hand and the aggression of his son. “Mink, what are you doing?”

“You cannot hurt him!” Though Mink’s eyes are trussed onto his father’s face, Aoba writhes below him, staring up to Mink with torn, tattered clothes and wrists irritated by rope. “I won’t let you!”

“…Mink.” His eyes are severe. “What are you doing?”

“I won’t let you hurt him!” He repeats. “You cannot! He hasn’t done anything wrong—”

There is a sound like thunder and a spark of light. Mink’s world goes white and Aoba’s goes red as Mink’s blood falls from his shoulder onto his cheek.

“I got him!” Cried Koujaku, standing triumphantly less than fifty feet away. “I got the savage!”

“Mink!” Both the tribe’s chief and Aoba scream out as one, the man with a weapon raised in defense falls to the ground.

“Mink!” Wrists bound, Aoba struggles to his side. The blood is bright and overwhelming, staining Aoba to the core. He should never have come. “Mink, no, Mink…”

“Men!” Mink’s father is frozen, the cogs in his mind turning sluggishly as he processes the sight of his son. “Men, charge!”


End file.
